


The Higher I Get, The Lower I'll Sink

by SociallyIneptDork



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bipolar Sherlock Holmes, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Paternal Lestrade, Pining Sherlock, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Protective Lestrade, References to Depression, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Mess, Unrequited Love, mama hudson, papa lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 16:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12821073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociallyIneptDork/pseuds/SociallyIneptDork
Summary: “God, Sherlock,” Greg breathed, and Sherlock knew the look of disappointment-not at him, never at him, at the situation, Greg would always insist- and bitter sadness would be on his face if he decided to turn around. He didn't. He wasn't strong enough to look into those woeful brown eyes. He wasn't John. He didn't have the bravery of a soldier. “If you take this any further, I'm gonna have to tell Mycroft to put you on a 5150. This is beginning to go from unhealthy right into suicidal territory, you realize that, right?”Another car passed by outside. It was raining again, less of a drizzle and beginning to seem more like a storm. The time of warm days and sun bathing were over it seemed, the weather had begun to shift into constant gloom and rain.





	The Higher I Get, The Lower I'll Sink

Sherlock let out a long sigh, a cigarette in his hands as he stared out of the window where the rest of London was also in a state of restless gloom. Rain tapped away on the window, and down below people walked through the streets without a glance at once another yet obviously craved the interaction. He'd seen their types before; the emotionally needy wife who hated her family because she married too soon to the wrong man, the naive and somewhat desperate young lady who was orphaned as a young child and was now in need of a knight in shining armor, the man who spent too much time playing video games or working on the computer to escape the reality of being alone.

They all craved actual valuable human interaction yet often turned away from it willingly with the faulty reasoning of _I need someone, not anyone._ They had a specific type of person in their mind, and if the person didn't live up to their standards, the person was dismissed and they would lose contact within months.

That's how their social lives went, always in a constant cycle of making and losing friends. It all looked so tedious, yet so many people claimed that it was fun and a vital part of being human. Maybe Sherlock didn't want to be human. He didn't need friends, or their petty small talk and trivial problems. It was all so dull and boring it made him want to gag.

Mrs Hudson puttered into the kitchen, tutting at the smell of tobacco in the flat. “Oh dear, smoking again, are you?” she said in a slightly disapproving tone as she set a tray of biscuits on the table. “You know, if you miss John you should just call him. I'm sure he'll want to solve a few cases with you, even with the wife and all.”

“He's newly married and has a regular day job, Mrs Hudson. Even _I_ know it would be wrong to put him in anything akin to danger now that someone other than myself would be greatly affected,” Sherlock said quickly, still curled up into a ball on his chair as he stared out the window, wrapping his arms around himself tighter and trying to focus on the world outside. “He's busy.”

“When was the last time you left these rooms?” Another sigh as Mrs Hudson opened the fridge, seeing that it was painfully bare. She was _worried._ She shouldn't be worried. Sherlock was fine, absolutely fine, there was nothing to worry about.

A car passed by, almost skidding on the slippery ground as it did with the speed it was going. An emergency at home perhaps. “I don't know, I don't like to keep track of unimportant events.”

“It's been _three weeks_ since you left the flat, to be exact. You sulk in here all day like a ghost and hardly eat and hardly sleep. The only light ever turned on in here is that blasted lamp that makes everything warm and yellow, all because you've been spending your days just staring out of that window as if you're waiting for something!” she snapped, hands on her hips, looking like about 5'5” of motherly concern and anger. “Or maybe, I should say _someone_.”

“Mrs Hudson, you and I both know that sentiment is of no value to me and-”

“ _Actually_ you and I both know you love him.” There was a beat of silence, as if the entire world had stopped to listen into the conversation. Her face softened as she lowered her voice. “I know you do, Sherlock, I was at the wedding. I heard everything you said. It was actually quite heartbreaking, I'd say. Even that handsome detective inspector Greg, almost shed a tear over it.”

Sherlock stared at his hands, feeling much more like a chided schoolboy than a grown man being yelled at by his landlady. “And what-” he cleared his throat before continuing, “would you suggest I do then? He's married off with a woman. I can't- I don't- What do I do?”

He hadn't faced her yet, but she walked over to stand beside him- he had turned his chair so he could fully watch London through the window some time ago- and placed a comforting hand on his face. Sherlock leaned into the touch, finding that after three weeks of almost complete silence that could drive even a monk insane, he craved the physical contact. “Why don't you go out and talk to people? I know it's hard, always has been hard for you, but it can't be as bad as this, can it? I haven't the slightest idea what else to do, Sherlock, I'm worried you're wasting away in front of me and I can't do anything but watch.”

The words bring back memories of another time, a different world, a different woman holding his face and weeping as she begged him to be okay. _Don't do this to yourself, can't you see how much we love you, look at what you're doing to our family, look at what you're doing to-_

“I'll... try.” He nodded, trying to shake the memories of his mother out of his mind as he did so. “There's no need for you to worry. I'm fine.”

Mrs Hudson gave a teary smile as she pulled away. “Of course, dear. I'll be heading down then. Give me a yell if you need anything.” She left, and Sherlock suddenly felt his limbs weigh heavier with the knowledge that he now had a promise he fully intended to break. He couldn't go out _there_ with the _people_. The noise, the crowds, the emotions that he could feel just radiating off them, their stories screaming to be heard with their every breath and every blink. It was too much. All of it was just too much.

The days passed quicker then, and after another week or two, it was Lestrade walking up the steps this time with a grim determination in his step. Sherlock already knew what was coming before he had fully stepped into the room and prepared himself for it. Mrs Hudson hadn't been able to handle him and now she sent in the second link in the chain, dear old Lestrade who took up the role of the firm but gentle father while Mrs Hudson claimed the role of the heartbroken and perpetually teary mum.

The flat was hauntingly silent when Greg entered, a stillness in the air that made the entire flat feel as it was cut off from the rest of the world, an isolated little bubble untouched by time and mortality. Sherlock's outline was what Greg's eyes fell on first, a motionless and lonely figure beside the window, staring out with dull eyes, a blanket thrown over his shoulders. He looked small and fragile in the light; the shadows dancing on his features from the streetlights outside made him look awfully young.

“It's my life,” Sherlock said after a beat of silence, feeling Greg's eyes on him, deciding to strike preemptively without turning to look at him. “I can do with it what I want. What I want is to stay in my rooms and take a break from the chaos in everyone else's lives.”

Greg paused, before his footsteps continued, and finally stopped at the couch where he took a seat on the armrest. “Maybe, but you won't be the one grieving for the second time if something happens to you.” Sherlock could feel the weight of his gaze, calculating, analyzing. “You could have called me, you know. We've been through this a lot of times, I thought you knew by now that when you have a relapse, you can call me. I can help you. We can all help you.”

 _Maybe I don't want to be helped,_ Sherlock wanted to snapped back, suddenly feeling something akin to rage festering in his veins. “I know,” he said instead. His voice sounded monotone, he realized belatedly, but he can't find it in himself to care how dead inside he sounds. “I'm sorry.”

They all cared so much and it _hurt_. Sherlock didn't want them to care, he just wanted to be alone in his suffering, wanted to have all the time in the world to wallow in his pain. After hiding the pain for the better part of a decade he had the right to want to drown in it, to hold onto it as if it were the only thing keeping him alive. It gave him something to focus on. The constant ache in his chest reminded him that he was alive. He was human, and the breaking inside of him meant there was a heart in there somewhere that was _able_ to be shattered.

There were a few minutes of silence. “You've lost weight.”

“Yes.”There was no point in denying it when it was clear that he had; his once tight clothes were now a size too big for his thin and awkward frame. The t-shirt he now donned hung off his shoulders as he stared petulantly out of the window, a blanket thrown over his shoulders not because it was cold but just to have something between him and the rest of the world.

A tapping, impatient, filled with the need for breakthrough but the desire to be calm and patient; the self-contradictory psychological state of an officer used to being obeyed immediately and a man of a soft heart who always wanted to be trustworthy and understanding. “How much weight?”

“Ten pounds.”

“God, Sherlock,” Greg breathed, and Sherlock knew the look of disappointment-not at him, never at him, _at the situation_ , Greg would always insist- and bitter sadness would be on his face if he decided to turn around. He didn't. He wasn't strong enough to look into those woeful brown eyes. He wasn't _John_. He didn't have the bravery of a soldier. “If you take this any further, I'm gonna have to tell Mycroft to put you on a 5150. This is beginning to go from unhealthy right into suicidal territory, you realize that, right?”

Another car passed by outside. It was raining again, less of a drizzle and beginning to seem more like a storm. The time of warm days and sun bathing were over it seemed, the weather had begun to shift into constant gloom and rain.

“Sherlock, _please_ -”

“I'm _sorry_ ,” Sherlock cut in, tone becoming almost desperate, almost pleading for Greg to stop his arduous quest of trying to save him from himself when he wasn't willing to be pulled back from the edge yet. “Greg- Greg, I _can't_. I'm sorry, I can't.” He bit his lip, not quite sure he couldn't do, but he knew that whatever Greg was asking him to do was too much. Greg didn't understand; the moment his feet hit the ground they'd shatter, the moment he stepped outside he would dissolve and the rain would wash him away.

Greg let out a bone-deep sigh, and Sherlock could hear the words that hung in the air between them, buzzing and crackling, ready to snap and sting, to burn and devour. There were a sea of unsaid words between them, and Sherlock didn't know how to swim through it.

After a few minutes of silence, Greg finally let out a defeated sigh, the tension dripping away when he spoke. “Mycroft... he um, told me to give you this,” Greg said, pulling out a bottle from his coat pocket and placing it on the coffee table between him and Sherlock. He watched as Sherlock finally looked in his direction, meeting his eyes for one heartbreaking second where Greg could read everything that flew through the young genius' mind before they fell to the bottle. “He told me to assure you that it's your choice whether or not you want to take them. If you do, tell him or me, and I'll supply you with it. He doesn't- it's probably not best that-”

Sherlock understood immediately and nodded. “You think I'll try to kill myself. Understandable, I suppose, given the... situation. What is it? A mood stabilizer or sedative or...?” he tried not to pay attention to the cracking of his own voice at the word sedative, tried to ignore the way his tongue felt dirty saying it. The word always made the image of dark rooms and broken bones flash through his mind. His time away hadn't been completely forgotten yet by his mind, and there were still days when he woke up with _stop,_ _enough- please, it's too much, I can't_ spilling from his lips before he fully woke up and realized he was no longer a nameless government agent in Serbia or a hostage being held captive by a group of terrorists in Russia.

He was _home_ and he was supposed to be safe; happy even, now that he was free from the clutches of Moriarty's contacts. He wasn't supposed to be considered a threat to his own life when he spent two years fighting for his desire to live, to survive. He grit his teeth and forced himself to survive through sheer will. _Where's that will now?_

“A fast-working mood stabilizer that's used to treat bipolar disorder, anxiety, major depressive disorder and autism, from what he told me. It's a relatively new drug, called... Clonazify?” Greg said as he read the label, and Sherlock nodded, his eyes still staring at the small bottle on the coffee table. “There's only three in there right now, so you can give it a try, see how it works for you.”

“Alright,” Sherlock responded, slow, soft, and desolate.

A few moments of silence passed, before Greg broke it by standing, not knowing what else he could say. “Well, I'll be heading out then. I'll probably see you in three days.”

As he turned to leave, Sherlock finally spoke without having to be asked a question. “Greg?” he asked, and Greg gave a noncommittal hum, turning to face him again- he'd turned his face to the window again, but Greg could make out the moisture glistening in his eyes. “It hurts.”

His stomach lurched as he listened to Sherlock's words, watching with horror and heartache as Sherlock's face contorted to one of pure agony; Sherlock must have been holding this in for a long while. Greg stayed silent, listening to Sherlock. “How do you do it? I never thought- I never _knew_ how much it could hurt to- to- to love somebody and- and then have them- have them...” Sherlock trailed off, turning his face to bury it in his hands, shoulders quaking violently.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Greg breathed, feeling his chest ache as he walked over to hold the crying boy close. It was a bit awkward of a position, Greg had to bend over slightly to properly embrace him, but Sherlock leaned into his touch as if he was a man walking through the Arctic terrain barefoot and Greg had just offered him warmth and shelter. He let Sherlock cry into him, wondering how long Sherlock had been waiting to say the words out loud, how long he'd kept his bleeding heart caged up like a wild, merciless, untameable beast. “That's right, just let it out. It's okay to cry, muffin, I'm here, I got you.”

And Sherlock did. He cried like a broken man, his shoulders trembling and his chest heaving with every sob. Greg could do nothing but hold him close and murmur sweet nothings in his ear about always being there, about how it was all going to be alright, about how the pain wouldn't last forever. It took Sherlock a long while to quiet down, and he just leaned into Greg's arms, his eyes heavy and his insides feeling vacant and empty, as if he'd been hollowed out.

Some time during the whole thing, they'd ended up on the couch. Greg had moved them there at some point, so that he would be more comfortable holding Sherlock close to him. They stayed silent after that, Sherlock getting a bit of much needed rest in Greg's arms, feeling warm and secure before he fell asleep. When Sherlock woke up, he was surprised to find that Greg was still there; awkwardly, he extracted himself from the dozing older man's arms. “Apologies for... that,” Sherlock said when Greg woke, his years working as a cop obviously making him more alert than others.

Greg let out a groan as he halfheartedly stretched, his shoulder popping as he sat up and tried to get blood flowing in his arm again. “No need for apologies. Though, a cup of tea would be much appreciated,” he said with a faint smile, watching as the lanky man went to the kitchen and prepared some tea for two. When Greg looked out the window he saw that it was now about evening, the sky a dark hue of navy blue, almost time for dinner for most ordinary people.

Sherlock returned with two cups in his hands, and passed it over. “So... Greg...”

“Yes?”

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, the glazed over look of sleep still in his eyes. “Can you tell Mycroft I'm fine? I don't want him to start a war because he gets distracted during a meeting or something. He tends to worry.”

Greg nodded, “yeah, I'll tell him. He's a worrier is what he is. Always nervous about this thing or that. I don't know how he can be both very anxious about things like doctor appointments and weight management, and also very confident about meeting with different world leaders.”

They talked amicably for a while longer before Greg left, and Sherlock found himself staring at the chair he'd spent the last month or so glued onto, watching the world as he slowly wasted away inside of the haunted walls of 221B Baker Street, too caught up in emotions to do anything but _exist_. After thinking it over, he decided to pick up his violin, not sure what to play, not sure how to play the song that was playing inside of his mind.

With slightly trembling fingers, he played a shaky and haunting lament that conveyed all of the things he couldn't say, all of the emotions he didn't know how to express. As he played the heavy and melancholic tune, his mind began to supply him with memories he didn't exactly ask for.

 _10 years old, sitting in the doctor's office- Dr. Peacey, his name was- and staring at the ground as mummy talked with the man about him._ Sitting across from him, Mycroft gave him a look that Sherlock didn't quite understand, probably understanding more of the medical terms than he did. He didn't understand what was wrong, he just knew that it _hurt_. Something hurt. _Everything_ hurt. All he wanted to do was sleep and forget that the world existed around him, and mummy decided to drag him here, to this weird man who kept asking weird questions about how he slept and how he played with the other kids and if he ever heard voices no one else did. _He wanted to go home._

 _13 years old,_ sitting in a hospital room, an IV connected to his arm as he laid there with his limbs feeling heavy and his mind feeling clouded. Mummy stood outside, weeping into dad's shoulder, and Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open long enough to see Mummy nod to a doctor. _“Now that you've done the paperwork, is it alright to put him in our psychiatric ward now?”_ Sherlock was wheeled into the Pediatric Psychiatric Ward, where everyone was weird and somehow he fit right in. Nobody looked at him funny there. Nobody called him a freak. Another teenager there, a cynical and misanthropic boy with dark hair and dark eyes, had given him a book about being able to read body language and the complex psychology behind every subconscious action or choice a person made. The boy never told Sherlock his name, always hiding behind the pseudonym _Richard,_ but he influenced Sherlock in mastering the art of deduction.

Sherlock put the violin down abruptly, not even finishing the note he was on, feeling his hands begin to tremble more violently. He didn't like where his thoughts were going. With a shaky breath, he took a seat on his chair once again, staring out of the window. He could remember it so _clearly_ now, the restraints, the sedatives, the months he spent trying to get his diagnosis, doctor after doctor, the bottle of pills in his trembling hands as he stared into the mirror, the way his insides burned and tried to expel the unwanted chemicals back out, pain- _so much pain_ , his mum crying time and time again, the way he always felt so angry with everything, the way he always felt angry with himself, the way nothing was okay and everything hurt and suddenly Richard-

“I cannot seriously be thinking about Richard right now,” Sherlock said with a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he balled his hands into fists. A sad realization hit Sherlock: Richard was his first love. John was his current love.

-Richard swept him off of his fucking feet, shattering the darkness and lethargy with his touch and his words. Sherlock fell arse over tit for him, color sweeping over his life once again. One day Richard was there, the next he was... _gone_. Sherlock asked the staff, asked his parents, asked the doctors but nobody had anything to say about where he'd gone. Nobody told him that Richard was dead.

“Sherlock, love?” Mrs Hudson called as she walked up the stairs, and Sherlock snapped back to reality. He unclenched his fists and took a sip of tea that was lukewarm now that he'd let it sit out. Mrs Hudson looked at him, eyes holding in them a sorrow that Sherlock wished he never experienced for himself. “Oh, Sherlock, you're awake. Come then, let's get some food into you. I brought you some chicken and chips, as well as some brownies.”

She set it all down on the table, and Sherlock knew he had to make a choice. He could remain sitting in his chair where he could sink into the pits of darkness lapping at his feet or he could stand and go into the kitchen and eat whatever Mrs Hudson had prepared for him. His knees creaked when he stood, and Mrs Hudson flashed him a bright smile. She was old, Sherlock thought as he looked at the wrinkles on her face. She was too old to be dealing with him and his mood swings, too old to be the one helping him bear the cross he carried.

“Oh, did I ever tell you about this one time in primary? You see, the teacher was...” Mrs Hudson rattled on about her life, and Sherlock listened, nodding and smiling when appropriate. It felt like a machine only doing as he was programmed to do. Something in his chest felt empty, but he couldn't bring himself to be afraid or concerned about it. There was too much pain and he knew that if he felt all of it, he would come apart under the pressure. After they finished their meals, Mrs Hudson looked at him, then at the bottle of pills on the table. “Do you think you should drink them now? If you'd like to, that is. It's not my place to assume things.”

It wasn't usually a question. Most people demanded he take it, forced it on him even as he thrashed and bucked beneath them and their needles. Most people never asked him if he wanted to. Most people never thought much of the silent boy who lurked in the shadows, thinking of him more as a _case_ , as a _patient_ than a person who might have some things to say about his treatment. Mycroft was the only one who listened to him when he was younger and nobody cared what he had to say.

Then Greg came into the picture and took an interest in his life and promised that he'd always be by Sherlock's side any time that he might be needed. And Mrs Hudson came along and took the role of the caretaker, always placing down a tray of food in front of him like the doting mother she never got to be. They all cared. They all cared so much, too much, and it made no sense why they would damn themselves like that. Yet he appreciated it. As much as he said he detested it, he loved it, he loved the way their touches made him feel safe, loved how their voices could silent the taunting words he'd heard throughout school. They could make the rumbling in his brain go silent, just for a little bit, just enough to push the cloud of darkness away.

Sherlock nodded, “I think now's a good time to take them, actually. I almost forgot. Thanks for reminding me.” He gave her a smile, and he knew that she understood what he was really saying but was too afraid to speak out loud.

_Thank you for not giving up on me._

_Thank you for being you and making my life just a little bit more bearable._

_Thank you for not ever leaving me when I needed you._

 


End file.
